


Consort

by songlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Lestrade, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Dirty Talk, Knotting, M/M, Omega Mycroft, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3256538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg slides his mouth to Mycroft's wrist. "You smell good," he murmurs. "Jesus, you smell so fucking good."</p><p>Mycroft's lips part and his legs spread the tiniest bit wider. He'll never admit it, but Greg knows the truth: the filthier Greg's mouth gets, the more Mycroft <i>wants.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Consort

**Author's Note:**

> God, please don't think I'm on some kind of writing spree. I am on an editing spree. This is the WIP clearinghouse week, apparently.

Greg is still at work when he gets the call. He hasn't even managed to commit this month's PA's name to memory yet. Georgia? Virginia? Something like that.

"He's asking for you," she drones. "At your earliest convenience."

Mycroft-speak for "now." Greg frowns. "Well, I've got a meeting in an hour, then I can—"

"No."

Greg sighs. "Is it that urgent?"

"Yes…" There's an edge to her answer, a hint that Greg is just a hair's breadth away from—

_"Oh!_ Oh. It's—that. Yeah. I'm—leaving now," Greg says in a rush. He tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder and pulls his coat on. "Tell him...tell him I'm leaving now. Uh—yeah. Bye." His sleeve is on the wrong arm. He shakes it off, pulls it back on, and drops his phone. "Shit!" He scoops it up and drops it into his pocket.

Sally spots him as he rushes past. "What about the meeting with—"

"Tell em I can't make it," he calls over his shoulder. "It's—family emergency."

Sally scoffs. "I'll tell them you're under orders from your other S.O., more like!"

Greg would turn around and make a face, but the elevator doors close before he can.

Honestly, it's nothing new, being under Mycroft's...command? Rule? There's not really a word for the kind of power Mycroft Holmes exerts. He'd dragged Greg into his sphere of influence years ago, before Sherlock had his doctor around to exercise some modicum of control. True, the, uh, nature of Greg's involvement with Mycroft's changed, but this sort of mad rush to jump to attention? Tale as old as time.

Greg considers hitting the sirens. In the end, he decides it'd be a bit excessive. He does threateningly flash his lights a few times, but he figures that's fair game. Any alpha half a city away from his desperate mate would do the same.

They've been waiting for this for _ages_. Omegas Mycroft's age typically only go into heat once or twice a year. Mycroft's last was eleven months ago, and they'd only just started dating then. They hadn't wanted to subject their new relationship to the strain of spending a full heat together. Mycroft had made the call to weather it out alone.

Well. Alone, except for the one blisteringly hot phone sex session. Greg had almost popped a knot out of rut from the mere suggestion of Mycroft in heat.

The suggestion, and his voice, and the wet sounds he could hear on the other end of the line—

Greg swallows. Man was not meant to operate a motor vehicle while suffering this level of genital engorgement. He squirms, carefully adjusts his trousers, and allows himself one quick squeeze.

"Five minutes," he says to his aching prick.

Greg tries to remind himself that Mycroft has it much worse right now. It works for a moment. But then, it leads to its logical conclusion: mouth-watering images of just how Mycroft might be managing his predicament. _Mycroft shedding his suit like he doesn't care a jot, just leaving them where they drop, lying back on his bed with a cold cloth on his face and a towel under his bum to spare the fine silk sheets from the slickness he's already dripping down his thighs, shaking through the first tremors, hands clutching at the sheets so he doesn't push three fingers up himself and twist—_

Blood pulses to Greg's dick, so strongly his eyelids flutter. He slaps himself on the cheek a couple times and blinks hard.

"Keep it together, Lestrade," he says sternly.

_Don't think about Mycroft. Don't think about him writhing with the effort to keep from touching himself. Don't think about pushing his knees back to his shoulders and riding him til your knot swells and his arse clenches so tight around you that you can't pull out, don't want to, so tight hot wet good, coming and coming til you scream—_

Greg lets out a frustrated whine and clamps white-knuckled fingers around the steering wheel. His cock throbs between his legs. The base where his knot is beginning to swell is tingling.

He thinks about roadkill and rotting food for the rest of the drive until he can think about nothing at all, and settles into the tidal ebb and flow of his heartbeat in his ears.

———

Greg lets himself in and tosses his keys onto the end table. He'll pick them up later. When he's not…well.

He'll get them later.

"Home," he calls, then freezes in his tracks.

Greg can smell the neutral background scent of the house that he doesn't even pick up when his senses aren't going haywire with impending rut. He smells the lemon-scented cleaner the housekeeper uses, his own shampoo and soap, Mycroft's aftershave, and the dusty paper and cold wax smell all old houses have. He smells the chicken breast Mycroft must have left off eating halfway through.

And emanating from upstairs, he smells Mycroft, steeped in the thick, heady aroma of heat.

Greg follows the scent like a man possessed, up the stairs, down the hall, through the master bedroom and into the bathroom. There he finds his prize.

Mycroft's clothes are draped over the top of the door. The man himself is in the spacious bath, head tipped back and a wet flannel on his brow.

He cracks an eye open. "Oh, thank God," Mycroft croaks. He gestures vaguely at Greg with one hand. "Do get in."

Greg is fairly sure he's never gotten naked so quickly in his life. Mycroft's answering smile is pinched with discomfort and the effort of maintaining control. Greg is very much looking forward to stripping away that control, layer by layer.

He turns his head to the side, lets the cloth fall off his forehead and onto the floor, and holds out his hands. Greg half-walks, half-swims over—this is less a bath, more a small Jacuzzi—and takes them, bringing one up to his face and pressing a kiss to its palm. Mycroft's cheeks color a little more.

"How far are you?" Greg asks, stroking Mycroft's hands with his thumbs. These things are important to discuss. He knows this because he is firmly telling himself they are important, even as every atom in his body is screaming to just throw the man's legs up and _plow_ him already.

"Far," Mycroft says. His hands are trembling. Greg licks his lips.

"You were fine last night," Greg says. He nuzzles the back of Mycroft's hand. Mycroft's eyes soften in appreciation. "It's still got to be only your first day. Not like you to miss it coming."

Mycroft looks irked, and it's _precious_. "Mild dietary changes," he says. "Lethargy, exhaustion. No different from a particularly bad week at work; we neither of us can be blamed for missing the signs."

All the same, Greg does blame himself. Just a little. To think how much sooner he could've been here if he'd suspected this was coming…

Mycroft strokes the side of his face. "No matter," he says, with a strained little smile. "Come, don't you think we should...attend to the matter at hand?"

_Jesus, yeah._

Greg slides his mouth to Mycroft's wrist. "You smell good," he murmurs. "Jesus, you smell so fucking good, even with all this bloody water in the way."

Mycroft's lips part and his legs spread the tiniest bit wider. He'll never admit it, but Greg knows the truth: the filthier Greg's mouth gets, the more Mycroft _wants_.

Greg braces against the edge of the tub and leans in for a kiss. Mycroft's hands come up to Greg's waist and he lets out a relieved hum as Greg turns his head sideways and mouths at the line of Mycroft's jaw.

"Jesus, gonna fuck you so hard," he murmurs, and bites under Mycroft's ear.

Mycroft's breathing has gone ragged. He curls his fingers around Greg's wrists. "Bed, I think," he says roughly.

Greg kisses him once more and then climbs out of the tub. He can hear Mycroft stifling a sigh of disappointment and has to suppress the urge to immediately get back in the tub. He dries himself off and offers the towel to Mycroft, who is still seated. He looks away and down.

"Gregory," he says, "I...I'm afraid I may require your assistance." 

_Christ. He's so far gone his fucking legs aren't working._

Mycroft takes the proffered hands with a minimum of embarrassment. Greg pulls him to his feet and then shifts his grip up to his elbows.

_Jesus, he's shaking like a colt._

He helps Mycroft sit on the edge of the tub and holds out a towel. Mycroft tries to swing it around his shoulders to dry them off, but his fingers slip and he drops it into the water.

"Damn." He wipes a tremulous hand across his brow and clenched his jaw, refusing to meet Greg's eyes.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." Greg picks up another towel and gently pats his mate dry. He tries to keep it gentle. He knows the terrycloth must feel uncomfortable on Mycroft's heat-sensitized skin.

Mycroft is still keeping his gaze down. After Greg finishes his cursory pat-down of his upper body, Mycroft pulls his arms in on himself in a defensive posture. Greg's heart positively aches for him, even as he wants desperately to throw him down and make him scream.

He smooths the towel over Mycroft's hair. "Okay there?" he asks.

"You are a blessing, Gregory," Mycroft says quietly.

Greg pulls him to his feet and kisses him. Mycroft rocks into him and moans, damp, heated skin slipping against Greg's.

"Lemme take you to bed," Greg says, husky and dark.

Mycroft shivers. "Please, do."

In their blind, backwards stumble from the bathroom to the bedroom, Greg ends up supporting most of Mycroft's weight as they go. Mycroft is breathing too quickly and can't quite suppress arching a little into Greg's hand on his waist.

Greg bites a possessive kiss into Mycroft's mouth. "Fucking beautiful."

Mycroft blushes. "Gregory."

"Call 'em like I see 'em, gorgeous," he says, with a cheeky grin.

Greg whirls them around, pushes Mycroft down onto the bed, and lands over top of him. Mycroft shuts his eyes and smothers a noise in the base of his thumb. Greg leans down and nuzzles his cheek against Mycroft's, and Mycroft clutches at the sheet with his other hand and sobs.

"Fuck," Greg swears, pushes Mycroft's knees up, spreads his legs, runs his hand down the back of Mycroft's thigh, and sinks two fingers in straightaway.

Mycroft's response is electric and immediate. His entire body jerks, he cries out wordlessly, and one hand flies to his prick.

"Greg— _Gregory,_ if you would _—"_

"You bet I fucking would," Greg says, and curls his fingers up.

Mycroft shouts and writhes as the light pressure on his prostate triggers another spasm. Greg shivers at the feeling of Mycroft's arse clenching tight around his fingers, knowing in a few minutes they'll be replicating the trick on other, more sensitive parts of his anatomy.

"More," Mycroft says breathlessly. "I—I need more."

Greg's heart throbs at the humiliation in his mate's voice. To see this man laid low, reduced to this...he wants to save him. So he gives him what he needs.

He bends low, presses his open mouth to Mycroft's neck, and sucks a bite into his throat. "Gonna fucking _stuff_ you," he says, and withdraws his fingers.

Mycroft tries to smother his whine behind his clenched teeth. Greg smiles.

"You're fine," he says. "Gonna take care of you."

"I know that," Mycroft says through gritted teeth. "It's instinctual. The body does not know more is coming, it only knows it has less than it did before."

"Yeah, I love it when you talk clever to me."

Mycroft lets out a small, strained chuckle.

"I mean it," says Greg. "I love it."

Mycroft's expression softens. He grips Greg by the back of the neck and pulls him down for a kiss.

They spend a good while just kissing, breathing each other in and out, giving and taking and giving back again. Finally, Mycroft breaks off with a gasp and a shudder and spreads his legs wider.

Greg kneels up between Mycroft's parted knees. His fingers are still wet. He strokes himself up and down once, slicking himself up with Mycroft's own juices. Mycroft watches him with wide, dark, greedy eyes. Greg grins.

"You want it?"

Mycroft twists his head to the side, face contorted in agony. He's caught between his pride and his lust, and it's killing him. Greg crawls forward and lines himself up, slipping the very tip of his cock into the cleft of Mycroft's arse. He watches the fog lift from Mycroft's face as his control slips, and the need wins him over completely.

_Fuck, yeah._

"Yes," Mycroft gasps. "Oh, _yes."_

"Good little pet," Greg says, and pushes in.

Mycroft's spine arches up and he lets out a full-throated cry of naked relief. Greg groans.

"Fuck," he spits. "Halfway there, just—just a little—"

He pushes in a bit further. Mycroft's eyes go wide as he feels the bulge of Greg's almost fully swollen knot teasing his rim.

"Gregory," he whispers, "I'm afraid—I think it might be—"

Still clinging to his dignity. Greg noses down his neck.

"It'll fit," he says. "Might hurt a little when I first put it in." _Jesus, Lestrade, can't talk like that or you'll come right here._ "That stops pretty quick though."

Mycroft bites his lip.

"Do you want to take it?" Greg asks, even though it nearly kills him. "We don't have to if you don't want to."

"I…" Mycroft lowers his eyes and breathes deeply. Do it."

"Okay." He bends, kisses away Mycroft's trepidation, and eases his knot in.

Mycroft's shocked moan vibrates through his lips. Greg gasps in a few breaths and tries to get his head to quit swimming.

"Okay?" he asks.

Mycroft's eyes are squeezed shut. There's a fine sheen of sweat across his face. "I—yes," he says shakily. "It's...God, Greg, it's—"

"Big, right?" Greg says, kissing along Mycroft's hairline. "Big and thick—Jesus fucking Christ, you're tight—fill you up _so good."_

Mycroft moans and clutches Greg's arms. "Greg, I—" It's as much as he can get out before a spasm wracks him, and then things spiral entirely out of their control.

Greg hasn't spent a heat with anyone in years. He'd forgotten just how it feels, that tight, hot length that feels like everything good and right in the world. He thrusts in, buries his face in Mycroft's neck, and groans.

"Jesus, Mycroft, you feel fucking fantastic. Just—bloody perfect. Don't ever wanna stop."

Mycroft whimpers and clings to Greg's shoulders. "Oh— _oh,_ Gregory _,_ _move."_

Greg scrapes his teeth at the side of Mycroft's neck and moves. Mycroft gasps. Greg's knot pops out, then back in a little more easily this time, and Mycroft pushes back.

"Yeah, that hit the spot, didn't it?" Greg says. He smears his thumb over Mycroft's nipple.

Mycroft lets out a grateful sigh. "More—faster, don't stop, I—I need it, it _hurts."_

Greg thrusts in with a bit more energy. Mycroft makes a little "oh" of surprise. Greg bares his teeth in a ferocious grin.

"Yeah, that's the stuff."

He does it again, and again, and again, until Mycroft is writhing and gasping with pleasure around him.

He hadn't remembered this part of heat, feeling like you're everything to the person under you, like everything they feel is yours and your doing, and the reciprocality of it. It's like you're being enveloped completely by your lover and owe every sensation to them.

Greg would say these things, but all he can manage is a steady stream of dirty talk that makes Mycroft flush and squirm.

"Jesus, could fuck you like this for days," he growls. "Keep you here with your legs up over your head. You're gonna feel me every day at work. They'll see you squirm in your seat and know what we did, know we fucked so hard you're still sore. Gonna make you _scream_ —fuck, you're so _fucking good—"_

"Gregory!" Mycroft cries, by which he means "more."

"Yeah, baby, shout for me. Wanna hear you when I get you right where you need it."

Gregory does just that, and Mycroft lets out a shocked "oh" just as his gut clenches with an oncoming tremor.

"Oh—oh, Greg! Gregory, I'm going to—"

Greg picks up the pace, pounding in fast and hard. "Yeah, sweetheart, come for me. Wanna see you come all over yourself, all over that pretty body. Fuck, yeah, take it—fucking _take it,_ baby—"

Mycroft's hands clamp down on Greg's shoulders an instant before he comes, insides flexing along Greg's cock, drawing him in and squeezing his knot tight. He sees sparks in the corners of his eyes.

"Oh, _fuck!"_

Greg stiffens with a shout as his orgasm pulses through him with pleasure so acute it almost hurts. Mycroft's tight arse ripples around him, milking the ecstasy and drawing it out until Greg is sure he's got nothing left, and yet he still keeps going. Below him, Mycroft trembles and his body clenches again as he shakes through a second orgasm.

Gradually, eventually, awareness returns. Greg settles down on his elbows and kisses Mycroft with no particular goal, just lazy kissing. They'll be knotted like this for some time. Might as well enjoy it.

"You good?" Greg asks.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Gregory. Really."

Greg grins. "Come on, Holmes. I'm nothing if not a polite bedfellow."

Mycroft catches his lip between his teeth and worries at it for a moment. "The quality of your pillow talk could stand to see improvement."

"Oh, really? Not what you were saying a minute ago. A minute ago it was all 'oh, yes, Gregory, I need it.'"

He tenses as his cock lets out a few wet pulses. Mycroft relaxes a little. There are two pink spots high on his cheeks, but otherwise he looks much calmer. And more comfortable—or, well, comfortable for Mycroft, which looks more like he's just smelt something vaguely distasteful.

"I cannot be held responsible for my language during a sexual encounter in estrus."

Greg snorts. "Yeah, I'm sure. You'll be cursing like a sailor before we're done."

_Ooh, that got a response._ Mycroft's mouth suddenly looks more red and wet and bitable, and his pulse flutters under Greg's lips.

"I will _not,"_ he says, but Greg knows the difference between Mycroft's "no" and his "make me" by now. He smirks.

"We'll see," he says, sliding his mouth down to Mycroft's collarbone.

Mycroft sighs and combs his fingers through Greg's short hair. "I do not swear."

"You do so," says Greg, around the bit of Mycroft's clavicle between his teeth.

"When appropriate."

Greg snorts. "Swearing's never appropriate. That's the point of swearing."

"It's the only appropriate reaction under certain circumstances."

"Mm?" Greg gives Mycroft's chest a little nip. Mycroft hisses. "Is that a challenge?"

Mycroft raises one very expressive eyebrow.

"Swearing," Greg says. "Also begging. Gonna have it."

"We shall see."

They kiss for a while as Greg rocks gently back and forth. He never moves enough to stretch their connection, only to keep pleasure tugging at them and the mood heady and drunk. After some time, Mycroft starts to stir with a little more restlessness.

"Think you're relaxing," Greg murmurs.

Mycroft nods. Greg tries a cautious roll of his hips and finds that he can pull out. As soon as he does, fluid sluices from Mycroft's hole and between his cheeks. His eyes widen.

"Gregory," he says. He looks helpless under the onslaught of the second wave of heat, quivering and flushed from his face to his chest. "I—"

"Shh, yeah, I'll take care of you."

"It's hardest," Mycroft pants. "The— _oh_ —second time. The body knows satisfaction is attainable, and responds appro—oh, God." His back arches and he braces his hands against the headboard, panting and rocking through the rush of need.

"Yeah, I know, baby. I've got you." Greg nuzzles at Mycroft's neck. He can smell the rising arousal in the air and it makes his toes curl. "Can you get on your front for me? Will your legs—"

"Yes." Mycroft turns over sluggishly, as if drugged. He rests his forehead on his arms, which only angles his arse further up towards Greg. Greg swallows hard.

"Right then."

He pushes his cock back in with little preamble, knot and all. Mycroft jerks back with a cry.

_"Gregory!"_

Greg halts and breathes. "Good?"

Mycroft just pushes his face into the pillow and moans. Greg feels like his eyes are going to roll back in his head.

"I want it harder this time," Mycroft says. He sounds _feral_.

Greg's grip on Mycroft's hips tightens and he starts to fuck him with vigor. Mycroft's body winds tight.

"Oh. _Gregory."_ He turns his head to the side and bites at the base of his thumb to muffle his voice.

Greg grits his teeth. He could come now if he's not careful, with it so fucking tight and hot and wet around his cock and the miles of smooth, pale skin beneath him and the sounds of the most proper man he knows sinking into a mess of wanton pleasure. It's so good he almost can't stand it, but at the same time he never wants it to stop.

So he stops.

Mycroft doesn't scream in frustration. He's not so out of control as that. But he gasps and lets his breath out in a long, drawn-out sigh of disappointment.

"Gregory," he says, tone fraught with tightly restrained frustration, "what—"

Greg noses through Mycroft's hair. "Want to hear you ask for it, babe."

He bites at the back of Mycroft's neck. Mycroft makes a choked little sound.

"Want to hear you lose it."

_And so do you,_ he does not say.

Mycroft flexes his hands. "Gregory," he says matter-of-factly, "would you be so kind as to—"

"Uh-uh, sweetheart. You know what I want." One hand creeps down to cup Mycroft's cock, just barely making contact.

Mycroft snaps. It's not immediate—a moment of tensing jaw and agonized grimace before his will breaks, and it's _beautiful_.

_"Fuck_ _me_. God, Gregory, please, fuck me until I come from it. Knot me until can't breathe. I— _ah_ —I need it—"

_Yeah, that'll do._

Greg bares his teeth and does just what his lover asks. Almost straight off, Mycroft is biting the pillow and screaming and coming and clamping down around Greg like a vice, who can only press frantic kisses to the back of his lover's neck as he joins him in ecstasy.

After, when they've maneuvered themselves down into a more comfortable position, Greg keeps kissing the back of Mycroft's neck, right over where he could bite Mycroft, if he wanted, and bind them together forever.

———

The heat lasts another two days. At more than one point, Greg wakes up to find Mycroft fucking himself on Greg's cock with beautiful abandon. If anyone asks, he did not come instantly.

After it ends, they spend another twelve hours unconscious, before Mycroft cooks them an incredible breakfast and kisses him goodbye on his way to work.

Just like that, all is back to normal. There's work, date night, occasional rounds of lovely and tender sex, occasional visits from Greg's daughters, occasional visits to (and from) Mycroft's brother, grocery trips, meetings, and appointments.

And six weeks later, there's a just-in-case test that turns up a little blue plus sign.

Mycroft stares it down in the bathroom as if it's aiming a gun at him. For the second time in recent memory, he finds he has only two words to properly express his predicament.

_"Fuck me."_


End file.
